


not again

by cyclopsBlinder (tereziswife2942)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Hitchhiker's Guide reference, this is silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:14:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tereziswife2942/pseuds/cyclopsBlinder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>lifes suck when you're killed by John Egbert in <i>every single one of them</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not again

Your name is – well, it doesn’t matter anymore, because you’ve had thousands of names and every single one of them was in a life laden with misfortune. You are currently a lich and you are waiting for your life to end at the hands of one John Egbert. You’re on LOLAR, so one would expect that you’d expire by Rose Lalonde’s witchy magyks, but this is not the case. In every life, every reincarnation of your luckless existence, John Egbert has killed you. The vast majority of your deaths were accidents on his part, which makes it all the more insulting.

The first instance you can recall is when you were an unassuming young man, just about to graduate from high school and excited to head off to college. You had an appreciation for classic japery, so you were at the door of a joke shop when you suddenly heard a loud rumbling noise and looked up to see a meteorite barreling for your exact location. You briefly registered the small baby on its surface before it made impact and everything went dark.

The next time, you were a firefly on his blasted planet. You assembled around his dead body on his quest bed and he backhanded you into the stone as he rose up into the air. You’d like to say that was your worst life, considering it was two weeks long and you communicated with your butt the whole time, but sadly it’s probably one of the better ones.

There were a few quick, uneventful deaths – grass underneath his clomping teenage feet, a harlequin he knocked off the shelf by “accident,” a cake he threw at the wall in a fit, a pencil he snapped in his backpack, a frog he squeezed a little too enthusiastically when he found you in the pond behind his school. But then came the life you both regret and appreciate, as it allowed you to gain knowledge of his lethality to your personage. You were a horrorterror in the Furthest Ring. The depths of your power and intelligence were beyond the mortal ken, and suddenly you remembered lives past and made the connection. It was Egbert. It was all Egbert. You comforted yourself that this would be the life in which he did you no harm; now you were prepared, and far stronger than he. But you were wrong. He – not even his living body, one of the dead hims in the dreambubbles you helped cultivate with your fellow horrors – killed you when his bubble drifted a little too close to you and he got too wild playing around with his dumb iron-cum-hammer. Wrinklefucker, seriously, what an embarrassingly stupid name for the instrument of your omniscient, formidable body’s demise.

From then on, though, you were aware of the threat to your continued existence. You tried to outsmart him, to avoid ignominious deaths at the very least, but greater effort on your part often led to even more shameful ends. There was the time you were the lobster his father let him pick out at Red Lobster for his birthday dinner. You’d tried to scramble underneath another lobster to avoid detection, but your frenzied movements merely alerted him to you and he giggled “That one’s frisky! I want him.” At times like this you realized only you knew how cruel a being John Egbert truly was.

You muse over all these things as you walk down the dark hallway of this mausoleum with your fellow lich. He grunts at you but you ignore him. Foolish creature, he will most likely lose his life at Egbert’s hands too this time around. At least he’s prepared to die as a game construct with the sole purpose to antagonize. You’d leave this place if you weren’t bound explicitly by the rules of Sburb.

Ah, there he is. No escaping now, you suppose. You’re suddenly struck with the desperate need to let him know what a useless, accidentally murderous cretin he is. _Johnnnnnnnnnnnnn,_ you croak at him. He turns from decimating the other lich with yet another ridiculously overpowered hammer and stops briefly.

“Wow,” he says, “None of the other enemies have known my name before! Maybe I’m gaining notoriety, heh.”

_I knooooowwwwwwwww yoooouuuuuu._ Talking makes your throat hurt like hell; liches aren’t made to do much else than growl and look intimidating. _Johnnnn Egbeeeerttttttt._ You point a gnarled finger at him.

“Wait, what?” His eyebrows draw together. “Is this some sort of mini-game? Maybe you’re just trying to spook me so you can kill me while I’m all confused and weirded out.”

You’d roll your eyes if you had any in your skeletal head. _I knowwww you will killlll meeeeee,_ you manage to hack out. _I just wanted to saaaaaaay…_

He seems to have gathered what passes for wits in his mushy human skull about himself and runs at you with the hammer out. You are determined to finish this, though, before you have to go through this horrific game of John-and-mouse again.

_Fuuuuuuuckkkk yoooooooouuuuu._ The hammer cracks into your sternum and everything fades as your body is transformed into grist. You’ve always hated gushers.

\---

“Yeesh, that was downright odd.” John collects the grist methodically, stopping to rub his chin for a moment in bewilderment. “Self-aware game construct? It’s like it knew I was gonna kill it before I even tried! Man, Sburb is weird.”


End file.
